Shadow
by CocoaBeans99
Summary: My name is Renn Grey, 17 years old, victor of the 2015 Scorpio Races. This is the story of how I died.
1. Preface

**_Preface_**

Dawn is just starting to break when I see it.

The black water brushes against the shore, whispering of the power it holds. A faint shimmer of dark skin under the rippling surface catches my eye and my breath. My heart thumps hard. For a moment there is absolute silence, a pause in time itself, as I anticipate what is about to happen. There is a shift in the air, and I feel its presence.

The water horse pushes its head from the sea, mane slick on its dappled-grey neck. I see jet black eyes rolling in a storm-grey face, wild and dangerous, the eyes of a predator. The water around seems to shudder as the capaill uisce stomps its hooves through the surf, and tremble as the creature exhales in one slow breath. Nostrils flared wide and breath cloudy in the morning air, the capaill uisce makes half circles with its hooves on the damp shoreline as it marches restlessly.

Every muscle underneath the smooth coat is tense and ready. I can almost smell its eagerness on the sea breeze; it wants to run, and it does. I watch with tight lungs as the beautiful, horrible monster gallops at full pelt from one end of the shore to the other. Hooves pound the compacted sand, churning up a long, winding track. I stay still on my perch- a slippery seaweed-covered boulder- and try not to breathe. A wind picks up and stings my eyes, but at least it is not blowing in the direction of the capaill uisce, the direction in which it can catch my scent.

A few strands of sunlight streak across the water horse, now slowing to a canter and shaking its head restlessly. It snorts and slows, snorts and slows, snorts and slows. It seems like a century until the creature comes to a halt, standing square and giant on this tiny beach, ears pricked and tilted towards the sea. She is stunningly beautiful, so gorgeous that it is clear she is of no origin of dry land, and she knows it. No earth-bound creature could possibly possess such fierce beauty. Lean and powerful, she is proud in her assertive stance, still attentive to the ocean.

That is when the wind changes.

It turns on me, blasting my hair forwards and across my face, whipping the brunette strands out of place. I watch in horror as the capaill uisce's head snaps around to glare at me with stone-cold eyes, square pupils dilated and filled with hunger. It happens too fast. I see the water horse stomp its feet and shake its head and catch my scent. I feel myself spring to my feet and wince when I realize my mistake.

The capaille uisce charges.

Every instinct screams at me to run, run as fast as I can, but it is the worst thing to do. The mare curls her lip back, baring jagged predatory teeth, and screams, paralyzing me to the bone with her deadly song. I feel the ground shake with the beat of her hooves and her wild heart, and I can hear the blood rushing in my ears as I stare at the crazy animal. Although I know I am going to die a painful death, she is so beautiful that it doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

I am knocked to the ground, pain exploding all over me; it takes me a minute to realize she has trapped me beneath her front hooves. I dare to steal a glimpse into those ferocious eyes, the last thing I will ever see. Those dark, feral eyes, lovely and awful at the same time.

I barely have time to blink when she rips my throat out.


	2. Chapter One: Renn's POV

Shadow  
Chapter One- Renn

I yawn and sigh as I wake to the shrill scream of the capaill uisce in our stables, cawing for their breakfast. My stomach turns at the thought of having to handle those bloody slabs of meat this early in the morning, but it has to be done. Rolling out of my warm nest of a bed, I drag myself to the door after dressing and having a quick wash.

Outside, it is still dark. Low clouds of fog wrap around my skinny ankles as I shove them in my old leather Jodhpur boots and pull on my huge quilted coat. I shudder, already chilled to the bone. The water horses cry again, and I am so desperate to make them stop that I run to the feed room, almost slipping on patches of ice, to collect their meat.

When I finally get to their stalls, they stomp their hooves and gnash their teeth and flare their narrowed nostrils, eyes rolling savagely and ears flat against their sleek necks. To hide my nerves I snarl and snap back at them, brandishing my iron circlet at their snaking heads, until they retreat and stay out of my way. I work my way down the stalls, dropping cuts of steak over the door and waiting until they have started to tear at them before moving to the next. Their soft, misty breath settles around me, the comforting smell of horse sweat and straw envelops me. I am calm.

At the end of the row of the stalls is my mare, Shadow. She's the most important thing in my life and the most dangerous. Her jet-black coat shines in the darkness and her crimped mane is wild about her head as she stretches her neck out to greet me. She attempts a cheeky nip, but I warn her with the iron and she squeals, backing away. I give her the meat and watch her wolf it down, every last bit. I scratch behind her ears and trace circles at her temple, knowing that she will not harm me. Her inky gaze bores into my sea-green one and I look at her for as long as I feel brave, stroking her velvet muzzle.

"Renn! What are you doing, girl? Get away from that damned beast this instant, you foolish brat!"

Shadow's throat reverberates with a low growl at the voice. I turn to face Cooper, the scrappy stable hand a year younger than I am, and simper at him. He always speaks like he's a grumpy old beggar and at 15 years old, he sounds like a complete prat. But I've learned that the best way to annoy the hell out of him is to be nice as pie, so I smile until my cheeks hurt. This morning, he is dressed in scruffy full-length chaps, worn old walking boots and a duffel coat, zipped up tightly to his chin. He holds a pitchfork in one hand and his own iron circlet in the other like a talisman. He always flaunts the thing, even though we all have one and they're ten a penny.

"Right on it, Cooper," I sing, sauntering past him. As I pass him, I lean over to his ear.

"Better be careful- they're fresh this morning. Can't you hear the sea singing to them?"

I laugh at the terrified look on his face as I dance away into the early morning light.

It is ten o'clock and the ice has melted away along with the mist, allowing me to actually see my feet. My father is out riding one of the capaill uisce stallions, Bolt, in the woods just upon the hill behind our farmhouse, and my twin sister Rosie is at the table still in her pyjamas and a huge quilted dressing gown, eating cornflakes. Her golden, honey-coloured hair, which is exactly like mine but long, sticks up in all directions and her dark olive eyes are half-closed from sleep. She gives me a weary, tired smile as I put the kettle on and crunch on an apple from the fruit bowl.

"Coming riding?" I ask her absentmindedly as I stare out of the window, watching the late autumn sun warm the earth below.

"Nah," she yawns, "maybe later. How's Shadow?"

"Alright, I suppose. I'll find out when I get her down to the beach, anyhow."

"Good luck," she says, crunching on her cereal, "with all that fresh air, she'll be on her toes."

I make myself a green tea and sit opposite my sibling, twisting a strand of short blonde hair around my finger. Whilst Rosie's is down to her waist, mine is chopped messily around my head, barely touching halfway down my neck, which makes me look like a pixie. My heart-shaped face and tiny height doesn't help, and with Shadow being almost seventeen hands high I sometimes have a hard time controlling her.

When I finish my drink, I put the cup in the sink and grab my coat, dropping a kiss on top of Rosie's fluffy head before bursting out into the bright November morning. Some of the regular island horses graze in the sun, whilst the deadly capaill uisce bathe in the darkness of the barn's stalls. They prefer the cold gloom to the sunny day, weirdly enough, and as I grab Shadow's tack from the tack room I can hear them calling back to the sea. She serenades them every growing day and it chills me to the bone.

Shadow greets me by blowing meaty breath into my face; it smells of rot and decay and although I love my mare, I cough and scowl and laugh at her as I push her back with one hand. I pull on her bridle and cinch up her girth, leading her out into the sunlight as I put on my riding hat. At the mounting block I hop onto her back, my hands already squeezing the reins gently as she jogs about on the spot. She is very hot today. I try not to think of how hard she will be to hold back once we are on the beach.

She snorts and stamps her basalt-coloured hooves into the flag stoned floor as I tighten my girth and sort out my stirrups, quivering. As soon as I am ready, I squeeze her slightly with my calves and she walks eagerly down the driveway. I give Rosie a little wave as we pass the farmhouse, then as we walk down through the large oak gates I ease her into a gentle trot. Shadow ploughs forward, almost tugging the reins from my hands. My arms already ache from holding her head up.

When we reach the fields, I decide to let her have her head because she needs to gallop and I want to. My mare leaps forward, throwing in a gleeful buck as she eats up the ground with her mighty strides. I crouch forward in my two-point position and close my eyes for a fraction of a second, relishing the feel of the wind in my face and the luxurious feeling of freedom in its element. Shadow's silky black mane strokes my face as I open my eyes to vast ground and endless skies, and after that, the sparkling black sea glinting teasingly in the distance.

I pull her back to a canter, still standing in my stirrups and turning her away from the sea in large twenty metre circles until she comes back to a steady trot and then, at last, a walk. I pat her sweaty neck and kiss her between her ears, leaning forward to hug her tight, my heart beating wildly against her heated skin. She is a capaill uisce, but right now she could be a normal horse for all I care. She is mine, and I am hers, and that is all that matters to me.

We walk along the cliff at Thisby Bay, watching the rippling blanket of inky black below us dance. My iron circlet is pressed to Shadow's high withers the whole time, and she is fairly docile with the cool metal resting like a warning on her skin. The sea sings her song to the mare, but she remains my mare.


End file.
